


Prove It

by iamtabbyroad



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I wanted to see if I could write a sex scene?, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 22:40:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16004777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamtabbyroad/pseuds/iamtabbyroad
Summary: "Well," I said after a moment. "There you have it."“Should be pretty easy to top,” he said. His tone was casual, but the edges of his voice were rough with something—lust? Desire? I wasn’t sure."Well." I shrugged, gesturing at the bed. "Prove it, then."A slight flicker of annoyance crossed his face. He nodded at the bed. "Lie back."





	Prove It

**Author's Note:**

> Note: "Can I write a sex scene?" I asked myself. This is the result of that question.

It started out as sort of a joke, then it turned into an argument, and then it became a dare and a bet.

I’d said that I didn’t think any man could really give me a better orgasm than what I could give myself. It was an offhand remark that was more reflective of the fact that I’d just had a series of really bad dates and I was beginning to wonder if I was destined to end up alone. It was the sort of thing that you say to make yourself feel better, even if you're fairly certain that it might be a lie.

Fred challenged this because one of Fred’s hobbies is challenging me. He has always been like this. As much as I adored him as a friend, our relationship was partly built on conflict. We pick and natter and nag at each other until we get angry about something stupid and it blows up spectacularly.

“That can’t possibly be true,” he said with the sort of bullheaded tone that always raises my hackles.

“It is absolutely true,” I countered.

“It can’t be.” 

“It is and who are you to make a judgment about my lived experience anyway?”

We bickered about this for a good ten minutes until finally, in a fit of frustration, I snapped, “Well, if you’re so certain, maybe you should prove it.”

“Fine,” he snapped back.

“Fine.”

Probably, if someone else had been there, this conversation wouldn’t have gone quite this way. Fred and I have a similar style of arguing: we both want the last word and we're both apt to doubling down on our argument, no matter how stupid it may be. We are the sort of people who would stare down an oncoming train and refuse to move because surely it would give up before we did.

But no one else was there—it was just the two of us alone in his flat. So instead of yielding to good sense, we started arguing about the mechanics of realizing this bet.

“There has to be some sort of neutral arbiter,” said Fred. “Otherwise, you can claim whatever you want and I’d have no way of verifying whether or not you’re lying.”

He had a point, but I wasn’t happy about it. “I don’t suppose you have any Veritaserum lying around.”

“Don’t be stupid, you know that’s highly regulated.”

“Don’t call me stupid, you idiot.”

We bickered for another ten minutes. Eventually, we agreed to use a MemoMirror. This was a prototype that Fred and George were working on. Their thought was that they could sell it as a highly practical alternative to notetaking—sort of like a Pensieve, but a lot less powerful. The prototype had some issues—the view was a bit distorted and the charm only captured five minute increments, but for our purposes, it was sufficient.

I waited in his bedroom while he popped down to the shop to get the mirror. The bed was unmade, striped sheets rumpled, the duvet not properly tucked in. I made the bed, mostly to give my hands something to do—and also to avoid reflecting on the wisdom of this entire enterprise. The important thing was that I was right and I was going to prove it.

Fred came back in as I was smoothing out the duvet.

“We’re just going to mess it up again.”

“You’re welcome,” I said tartly as I sat down on the bed. 

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything as he handed me the mirror. It was small, about the size of something you might keep in a handbag to check your lipstick.

“Just press your thumb against the glass and think of the memory,” he said, sitting down beside me. “It’ll flash green once it’s ready.”

I pressed my thumb against the glass and brought the appropriate memory to mind. A moment later, the mirror flashed green. Wordlessly, I handed it to Fred.

The reality of the situation really struck me when he activated the mirror and the sounds of my own moans filled the room. I could see a reflection of myself in the mirror in his palm—spread out on my bed, eyes closed, hips jerking in time with my hand. It was a little distorted, but it was recognizably me.

My gaze quickly strayed from the mirror. I felt odd about watching myself, though the sounds themselves were provoking the expected response: I was wet, my heart rate was a little elevated, and I could feel a flush spreading across my cheeks and breasts.

I got up the nerve to look at Fred eventually. He was staring at the mirror with an expression that I presume was meant to be a bit neutral and detached, but his lips had parted just slightly and I thought his breathing might be a little quicker than normal. My gaze strayed to his trousers and noted a pronounced bulge. My stomach dropped and I felt a familiar sort of ache start to build in my hips and belly. 

By the time the five minutes was up, I was certain that I wasn’t backing down—not only because I still wanted to prove him wrong, but because I desperately needed to come.

The memory ended and Fred carefully shut the mirror and set it on his bedside table.

"Well," I said after a moment. "There you have it."

“Should be pretty easy to top,” he said. His tone was casual, but the edges of his voice were rough with something—lust? Desire? I wasn’t sure.

"Well." I shrugged, gesturing at the bed. "Prove it, then."

A slight flicker of annoyance crossed his face. He nodded at the bed. "Lie back."

I scooted backwards on the bed, situating myself on the pillows, my body humming and aching. He crawled up next to me, arranging himself so that he was propped up on his left side, his body pressing against me, his erection nudging against my hip.

 _This isn't awkward,_  I insisted to myself as I tried to adjust to the reality of Fred pressed against me like this. It was strange and odd, but it wasn't bad. It was something else that I couldn't quite name.

In all the time I'd known him, I'd never seen Fred hesitate and he didn't then. He began kissing my collarbone and neck like he'd been doing it for ages. Whatever that feeling was--that something else--it was quickly outweighed by the delightful sensation of his lips and tongue trailing up the column of my throat.

By the time he arrived at my lips, I was ready to kiss him--I _needed_ to kiss him. There was no awkwardness, no hesitance. His tongue slid into my mouth and I welcomed him eagerly, matching him stroke for stroke and dragging my teeth along his lower lip.

While we kissed, his hand crept under the hem of my shirt and pressed flat against my stomach, slowly inching upward until his fingertips nudged the band of my bra, lightly tracing the curve of my breasts. I held back my sighs until his hand slipped under the cup of my bra and grazed the sensitive skin of my nipple and then I couldn't help the whimper that escaped me.

He tugged my shirt up, smirking. I narrowed my eyes at him before helping him pull my shirt off and over my head. He ran a forefinger down my sternum, past the valley between my breasts and ending at the waistband of my jeans. I sucked in a shuddering breath and he broke away from me, raking his eyes over my mostly bare chest before lowering his head and pressing his lips against my stomach, right below my belly button.

My knickers, I was certain, were ruined.

He kissed, nibbled, and sucked his way up my stomach to the furrow of my cleavage, running his tongue gently along the scalloped lace edge of my bra before slipping a hand behind my back and undoing the clasp. 

As soon as I shrugged out of my bra, he brought his mouth to my right breast, swirling his tongue around my nipple and teasing it to a stiff point, gently kneading my other breast with his hand. His teeth grazed my nipple and I couldn't help but moan and he immediately did it again and I swear I could feel him smirking against me.

The longer he kissed and sucked and kneaded my breasts, the wetter I got and the more the ache between my thighs intensified. My hips rolled almost unconsciously against him, begging for what my pride would not allow me to ask for. Eventually, he came up to kiss me again, rolling back onto his side and pressing himself against the side of my body, his hard cock digging into my hip again.

He undid the button of my jeans and pulled down the zipper. I wriggled out of them, kicking them to the floor.

He took his time, lightly running his fingertips against my thighs, dragging a finger along the waistband of my knickers. Every movement seemed designed to amp up my desire, to draw out that glorious ache. I spread my legs and he ran his fingers lightly along my inner thighs.

His hand eventually brushed against the fabric of my underwear, right above my clit. He sucked in a sharp breath.

"You're soaked," he said huskily. His fingers brushed more intentionally against the fabric and I whimpered. "I haven't even touched you yet and you're _drenched_."

I didn't want to ask him to touch me. Even then, my body humming with arousal, I was still dead set on proving Fred Weasley wrong. So I waited, trembling with anticipation as his fingers continued their agonizing path along the fabric of my knickers, hinting but not quite delivering.

After some time, his hand went to the waistband of my knickers and his fingertips slowly slipped beneath the fabric. I waited while he ran his fingers through my curly thatch of hair and gently teased and traced my outer lips.

And then finally, his fingers slipped between my folds and found my clit.

I moaned when he first touched me. How could I not? I was more turned on than I'd ever been in my life. I was so turned on that I almost didn't notice the smirk that was tugging at his lips. Almost.

His fingers circled my clit. "You want this so badly, don't you?"

I kissed him, mainly to avoid having to answer that question because my pride was--perhaps surprisingly--still somewhat functional at this point. 

"You do, don't you?" he mumbled against my lips. When I didn't reply, he increased his pace just a little, enough to edge me closer, enough to make me want to beg.

"Tell me," he said huskily.

My breath stuttered. "Fuck."

"Tell me."

"Yes. Please."

As soon as the words left my mouth, his hand was slowing and suddenly I was close, but not quite _that_ close.

"You're a bastard," I gasped.

He chuckled. "Doesn't hurt, building a little anticipation." His pacing began to increase again. "In my experience, it tends to pay off spectacularly."

We did this for a while: he would bring me just up to the edge and then pull me back, while I bit my lower lip to keep from begging him to make me come. But eventually, what little pride I had left was suddenly non-functional and every emotion was superseded by my desperate need to come.

"Please," I whimpered as his hand eased back. "Please, I need to come, I need it, I need it."

He didn't give it to me, of course. Not right away. I had to whimper and moan and beg and _please, Fred, please make me come, I need it so bad, I'm so fucking wet, please_.

It was the sort of thing that would have annoyed me if I had the capacity to care about anything other than coming.

Finally, he leaned in and kissed me, his hand still moving at that annoyingly slow place. "I'm going to make you come harder than you've ever come in your life. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Do you want it?"

"Fuck, yes, please, please, please."

He was looking at me, lips slightly parted, pupils dilated. "Come for me, love."

I was so close, I needed, I--

He slipped a finger inside me and I saw stars.

"Oh fuck. Fuck." That knot of tension was expanding and building and I was so close, I was so close, I needed, oh fuck, _fuck_.

I was coming and I knew immediately that I'd lost our stupid bet because I had graduated from moaning to something more in the neighborhood of screaming and _fuck_  it was so good...

And then it kept building and Fred was lowering his mouth to my clit then his tongue, my god, his tongue and my fingers were digging into his shoulders and I was coming again and it was so much _more_  than the last one and I had never felt so good, never been so glad to lose a bet in my life.

When he'd finished lapping me through the last orgasm, he lifted his head, the smirk on his face somewhat lessened in its annoyance by the fact that I could tell his lips were glistening with my come.

“I think I won that bet,” he said.

I felt a flash of irritation as I lay there panting and trying to catch my breath. I could argue with him. I could. But I didn’t want to. I closed my eyes.

I knew what I wanted.

“We never agreed on winnings,” I said.

“What do you suggest?”

I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Fuck me? Please?”

He was on me as soon as the words left my mouth, kissing me hard. "I was hoping you'd ask,” he said huskily, pulling away and peeling off his shirt and chucking it aside. Our fingers fumbled over each other as we made short work of his belt, button, and zipper. He shucked off his pants in one quick motion, kicking them off the bed.

I had mere seconds to take him in—the lean muscles and flat stomach, the smattering of freckles, the trail of ginger hair leading down his stomach, his tapered hips—before he was on me again, kissing me hungrily and pushing me back into the mattress. The feeling of his bare skin against mine was enough to make me sigh and wonder why we hadn’t done this before, no one had ever felt so good.

My hands slid down his stomach to his cock and I savored his low groan when I took him in my hands. And although I’d intended to savor this, having him in my hand like this made me ache with want.

I wrapped my legs around his waist and guided him to me. He shifted his hips slightly, the tip of his cock nudging at my entrance. He paused and looked at me, a slightly crooked grin pulling at his lips.

“Fred Weasley, if you say something smart right now, I will fucking destroy you,” I warned him.

He started to say something and seemed to think better of it and chuckled. “Noted.”

And he stroked into me in one fluid movement and a half groan, half sigh escaped my lips as he filled me entirely.

“You feel incredible,” he groaned, leaning down to kiss me.

He began to move in slow, purposeful thrusts that felt both tantalizingly slow and utterly perfect at the same time. I kissed every part of him that I could--his lips, his cheeks, his neck, his ears--until he draped my legs over his shoulders and suddenly I couldn't concentrate on anything other than the feeling of his cock inside of me, nudging me back to that glorious edge.

His hand slid between our bodies and his fingers grazed my overly sensitive clit.

I didn't last very long and he was only moments behind me. His eyes screwed shut and his breathing became deep and fast and his hips thrust harder and faster until he cried out, my name tumbling from his lips over and over until he gave one final shudder and collapsed against me, his face buried in my shoulder.

The room was quiet for a moment, save for our panting. My heart beat hard against my ribcage. My good sense was beginning to wake up and it was occurring to me that I enjoyed that more than I should have. I didn't know what it meant, but I knew it wasn't nothing.

"Fuck," I said, both in reference to how incredible I felt and how terribly I might have fucked up.

Fred took a deep breath and I waited, expecting some sort of similar sentiment.

"Can I take you to dinner tonight?" he said into my shoulder. 

I hadn't expected that. "What? Like a date?"

"Yeah."

I paused. "You're serious?"

He lifted his head so that he was looking at me directly in the eye.

"Completely," he said and I believed him.

I nodded. "Yeah. I'd like that."

"There's one condition." He kissed my collarbone. 

"Yeah?"

"You're going to have to stay here until then, in your current state of dress. And after dinner as well. And if I'm being honest, there's a very good chance that we'll end up getting delivery in order to facilitate remaining in this state for as long as possible."

I laughed. "I can live with that."

"Good." He leaned in and kissed me very slowly and sweetly. "I think we probably should've done this a long time ago."

"The date or the sex?"

"Yes."

I laughed again. "D'you think that perhaps explains some of our fighting?"

"It certainly explains why we thought that bet was a good idea."

"In retrospect, most people probably wouldn't have gone in that direction."

"Not unless they had years of secret, unresolved sexual tension." He kissed me again and I felt his cock twitch against me.

"You're not ready to go again already, are you?"

He smiled in a way that made my stomach turn to butterflies. "Give me another half hour and I will be."

He was right.

* * *

We told people that it was an argument that brought us together. Years later, our eldest daughter would ask me what the argument was about, what topic had caused us to realize what was plainly in front of our faces this entire time?

"Oh, it's been so long, I can't remember," I said lightly.

Fred caught my eye from across the room and gave me a look that had me thinking about the calculus of getting a half hour alone in our bedroom.

"Whatever it was, I'm certain your mother was wrong," he said casually.

 _Prove it_ , I mouthed to him silently.

Later, in the privacy of our bedroom, he did.


End file.
